Page 11 of Guarded from Treachery

In the beginning, I naively thought the police would help. I thought I’d go to them, explain all the crazy—no, more than that, absolutely insane—things that had been happening to me, and they’d jump into action. As I walked into the police station that first time, I was scared, but still hopeful.

I walked in there expecting kindness. Concern. A determination to find the answers and somehow set things right. I imagined gruff but gentle officers bringing me tea as they listened to my story, vowing to stop at nothing to solve my case.

Apparently, I was envisioning an episode fromLaw and Orderand not reality.

Reality was rolled eyes and condescending tones and quick glances that reflected their derision as loudly as if they’d said the words. And reality was being scolded for wasting their time, even threatened with charges if I continued to make false accusations.

During my visit, there was only one person who showed some semblance of kindness, and it was the department social worker, who pulled me aside to gently suggest I look into counseling.

So, yeah. That was pretty terrible.

Desperate, I caved and called my father for help. And as much as it stung to ask, I never dreamt—silly me, being overly optimistic again—that he’d call me a liar. That he’d tell me in that cold way of his that I must have brought it on myself, and he wasn’t about to help me fix things.

“If you’d stayed in New Hampshire like you were supposed to,” he lectured, “and followed the godly path, instead of running away to pursue your frivolous notions, none of this would be happening. But you made your choice. Don’t expect your mother and I to bail you out when you realize it wasn’t the right one.”

His words shouldn’t hurt me anymore. I know they shouldn’t. I’ve had well over a decade to come to terms with my family’s disapproval of my lifestyle. But it still stung.

And I’m not a liar. I wish thiswasall a figment of my imagination. A brush with insanity would be preferable to the situation I’m in right now.

Stuck. Scared. Confused. And utterly alone.

Well. That’s not true. I have Rory. She offered to have me stay with her in Vermont, but that’s not an option. Not only is my job here—a job I desperately need, especially now—but if I’m in danger, like I believe I am, there’s no way I’m bringing it to her.

So here I am. Making the drive from Dallas to a little ranch on the outskirts of San Antonio, pinning all my hopes on a man I barely know.

Matt. My dark hero. A man who didn’t hesitate to come to my aid. And a man I’ve thought about every day since I met him.

We only spent a few hours together that day, first waiting for the police to show up, and then repeating our account of what happened over and over again. Definitelynotthe best circumstances for getting to know someone. But through it all, I discovered plenty of things about Matt, things that make me want to trust him.

I learned he’s newly retired from the Army, and he moved to Texas to work for a private security company. I saw his gentle nature, a contradiction to his intimidating appearance. I watched as he transformed from a warrior to a protector, thinking nothing of giving up hours of his time just to make sure I was okay.

I know he has a kind smile and eyes that shift from a deep espresso to a warm chocolate when he’s concerned. And I know the tips of his ears turn pink when he’s embarrassed, which is probably the most endearing thing I’ve seen in a very long time.

And heofferedto help. As we stood there in the little conference room at my office building once the police had finally left, he handed me his business card and told me to call him if I needed anything. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “You need anything, Isla, just call.” Then he paused, his ears pinking up as he added, “Or you can just call. You don’t have to need anything.”

Iwasgoing to call him. Despite the miles between us and the unlikelihood of anything going any further, I still intended to call. Then my life abruptly turned into the plot of a really messed up Lifetime movie, and all my focus went towards trying to deal with that.

But here I am, about to see Matt again. Just not for the reasons I would have hoped.

In an ideal world, I’d see him the next time he comes to Dallas for business. We’d meet up for drinks or dinner, and I’d find out if he’s just as nice as I remember. Maybe things would go well, and we’d agree to stay in touch, figuring out some way to make a long-distance thing work.

Instead, I’m making this last-ditch trip across the state, desperately hoping that not only will Matt believe me, he’ll also agree to help.

As I drive, my gaze drifts to the map on the dashboard again. The directions tell me I’m only ten minutes away from the Blade and Arrow ranch, and a surge of anticipation wars with ambivalence.

I could find just what I need. Or I could suffer another disappointment.

When the app dings at me, signaling for me to take the next exit, my heart jumps. My stomach flips over in a drunken somersault. Sweat dampens my palms.

Just before I veer onto the exit, fear catches me, digging its claws in deep.

When was the last time I checked for anyone following me?

Did the monotony of the drive make me complacent?

My pulse accelerates. Panic squeezes my chest.

How could I have forgotten? I’ve been so careful, always traveling during the day, never walking alone, carrying my trusty pepper spray and taser everywhere I go.

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